Everyone forgets. But sometimes forgetting is a choice. Sometimes we choose not to notice. Not to remember. After the argument with my grandmother, I was shocked and angry. With the petulance which only an adolescent can summon, I swore to myself that she was dead to me. That I would never speak to her again. And yet, the anger occluded something else. A deeper, less conscious sensibility. I was aware she had called me by my mother’s name. How in those moments she seemed to be speaking to someone else, rehearsing bitter arguments from a different time. I was aware of how she had lost track of my brother in the park some weeks before. I was aware of a host of other little slips on her part.
Sometimes we feel the dark shadow of what is to come creeping closer, and yet from the bustle and light of the present – our routines, our sense of everyday normality – we convince ourselves that the darkness on the periphery is not really there. That little mistake – the confusion of names, the forgetting of something that occurred only a few hours before – we tell ourselves it is nothing, that such things happen all the time. They are not important in the scheme of things.
And we ignore that deeper, more elemental voice. The one that is telling us they are important.
That they are the most important thing of all.
It was early, and the morning sun was streaming into my room in long slats of voluptuous light. Entangled in my bedsheets, still lazy with the warm hum of sleep, I was reading one of the old bookseller’s most recent recommendations, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. I was engrossed. Suddenly the weightless flow of my concentration was interrupted by a collision of voices; from outside my door I heard the reedy shrillness of my mother, and then the lower, richer rumble of my grandmother’s voice. I slipped on my dressing gown, feeling the coldness of the floor against my feet, and wandered out into the hallway to see what was going on.
They were outside the bathroom. My mother, thin and stick-like, was standing over my grandmother, trembling with indignation and brandishing a toothbrush. My grandmother was watching her with pursed lips.
‘Don’t you realise how unhygienic that is? I don’t want you using my toothbrush. I don’t want to pick up all your germs. Mine is the red one. Yours is the blue one. I am going to have to bleach mine now because of you!’
My grandmother fixed my mother with a grim, level gaze.
‘You know, I remember when you weren’t more than three years old. I found you eating mud in the garden more than once. It occurred to me then that you weren’t the smartest of kids. But it never did you any harm. Those feel like simpler days!’
‘Eww,’ my mother squealed with indignation. ‘Eww. Why would you even tell me something like that? What’s wrong with you?’
My grandmother shrugged her broad shoulders.
‘It’s just a toothbrush.’
My mother’s face suddenly seized in a grimace of rage.
‘You make my life a misery sometimes, old woman. Is it really that hard? To remember the difference between red and blue? Can’t you even manage that? Is that really too much for you?’
This time my grandmother didn’t say anything. My mother flounced away, a whirlwind of wounded self-righteousness, and my grandmother simply sat there, quiet and unmoving. I watched her from the gloom of the corridor. She seemed lonely.
I slipped back into my room.
It was Saturday, and I was due to attend my class with Liu Ping at one o’clock.
I was walking down Pingjiang Road – a wide street decorated with a series of ash trees, whose crisp thin leaves flickered and rippled as a wave of warm summer wind passed across them. I knew that they were ash trees, for my grandmother had taken me for walks along this street when I was little, and she knew so much about the different trees and would name them as we went. As a small child I had been particularly fascinated by trees. In the daytime I loved looking at them, but at night I feared them, for I believed their long crooked branches were arms which might snatch me up and pull me into their darkness, never to be seen again. This was a constant in Chinese fairy tales, young girls straying into forests or caves or swamps or castles. Never to be seen again.
But when my grandmother taught me about the trees, I began to shed that fear. The ash trees were particularly important to her; she said their leaves could be crushed and used for a variety of medicines. As a citizen of the modern world, I am sceptical about the herbal medicines my grandmother prepared. But at the same time, she was also the first person to show me that the external world was not something to be frightened of but something to be understood, and that there was a real power in that.
I stopped being frightened of many things because of her. And then I realised. When my mother had shouted at her, ‘Is it really that hard? To remember the difference between red and blue?’, my grandmother had grown quiet and subdued and there was an expression on her face I didn’t recognise. One I had never seen before. And in that moment I understood.
She had been afraid.
When I got to the school building the others were waiting outside the classroom. Liu Ping had not yet arrived with the keys. Gen was there. We nodded at one another politely. We had remained on polite but distant terms when we met for the class, even after we had become involved romantically. But that day, such curt formality cut especially deep. More than anything, I wanted to linger, to have him reassure me that we were okay. Instead it felt as though I was living in some kind of limbo, sickening and precarious.
The atmosphere among the others was buoyant, however. Today was the day when we were going to get our assignments back, papers we had been working on for months, and there was a sense of expectation in the air. Li Lei was going from one student to the next in a state of nervous excitement, her small dark eyes blinking, her words breathed out in a flurry of fluttering syllables. She approached me. She was only slight, but she drew in close enough that I could feel the hot softness of her breath on my face. She seemed to be in the grip of the type of ragged hysteria that comes from not having slept.
‘I know I’ve done so badly. I’ve really failed this time. Liu Ping is certain to give me an F. Of that we can be sure. I knew it as soon as I handed my paper in. If I get any higher than an F, that would be a miracle. But I know I have failed on this occasion.’
Her lips twitched into a hapless smile, before she was off again, to the next student, to explain much the same. I found myself watching her. I stole a quick glance at Gen. He was speaking with another boy, Bingwen, and in that moment I felt a yearning to be by his side, to be the one he was talking to. If the heavens had opened up and struck Bingwen with lightning, I would have felt some small relief. The force of my yearning left me feeling miserable and petty, and I turned back to look at Li Lei. I realised how much I envied her.
For her, the whole world was contained in the books she read and the papers she wrote, and the parameters of that world were delineated neatly and securely by the graduation in grades from A to F. Until some months ago, we had not been that dissimilar. Like her, I took great solace from my school record, from the high grades I achieved, and my world too had been largely defined by the contents of the books I read. I glanced at Gen and was overcome by another wave of that same miserable longing, and it occurred to me that, with everything that had happened, I hadn’t even thought about my paper or its grade; in that moment, whether I did well or poorly was a matter of dull indifference.
Liu Ping came walking up to us, briskly, jangling a set of keys. He had a smile on his face and a set of papers wedged under his arm. Li Lei gazed at them with what I can only describe as hunger. Liu Ping opened the door and we followed him into the class.
He stood at the front smiling brightly.
‘Well, I won’t keep you in anticipation any longer. After all, that would be cruel.’ He winked.
We laughed nervously.
He handed out the papers.
I was sitting next to Li Lei. I caught a glimpse of her paper. It was covered with corrections in red, and at the bottom I saw a single F scribbled with the same red pen.
She looked at the paper for a few moments. She drew in breath. And then she burst into tears. Liu Ping looked mortified. He hurried over to her at once. She was sobbing with abandon, great teary, snot-filled gasps of anguish, her shoulders rolling, her body heaving; it was as though some kind of barrier had broken, and the emotion had come through in a deluge. Eventually Liu Ping was able to calm her down such that he was able to coax her from the class. He stood outside talking to her for a few minutes. I couldn’t hear what he said but I knew it was gentle. Every so often she nodded.
When they returned, she had her head bowed. She looked devastated. Everybody was staring at her. She kept her eyes on her desk. Then Liu Ping started speaking again and people looked away. At that point Li Lei looked at me, her eyes still glistening.
‘He said I could go home,’ she said softly. ‘The teacher said I could go home if I wanted, but I thought I’d better come back. Just because …’
Her voice trailed away. ‘Just because …’ But I understood nevertheless. She had chosen to confront her humiliation, knowing that everyone had witnessed what had just happened. She had forced herself to return to the class and begin to build again.
Li Lei is so much braver than me, I thought.
Liu Ping looked at us. He looked at Li Lei in particular.
‘You are in this class because every single one of you is a gifted student and every single one is a pride to China.’
Li Lei gave him a shy watery smile, and there was light in her eyes again.
‘Part of what we are doing in this group is preparing you for the next stage. Your school hopes that you will go on to university and will eventually do great things for your country. The last assessment you will have in this class is the most important. You are to write a five-thousand-word essay. The essay should be completed by 28 January next year. Should you do well, the assessment will be added to your university application form, regardless of what subject you choose to apply for. In other words, it will stand you in good stead and open the door to some of the best institutes in Beijing. Needless to say, you must approach this assessment with the utmost seriousness and dedication.’
It was as though the air had been sucked out of the room. The eyes of all the students were on the teacher. I looked at Gen. Even he seemed stirred by the words of Liu Ping; the casual insouciance which was his trademark had for a few moments disappeared.
Liu Ping relaxed his shoulders and smiled.
‘Don’t look so frightened. It’s not all that bad. The assignment is as follows. You need to write your words on the subject of what it means to be a human being. Now I know that sounds a bit grandiose. But it doesn’t have to be. You can write about the things that make you who you are. Your hobbies, your interests. Or you can write about someone else. Someone you know. Someone who inspires you. Or you can be more general. What is it that is essential to a well-lived, productive life? I think the important point here is, however you go about it, that you invest your essay with belief. With passion. That’s all. Class dismissed.’
Gen was the first one out. I watched him. The same quiver of painful, delicious anxiety ran though me whenever I laid eyes on him these days. I hurried after him, my heart beating. I followed him down one street and then the next, trying to pluck up the courage to speak to him while not seeming needy or desperate. Finally, I caught up with him, my heart pounding. I tried to make my words casual.
‘Hey!’
He looked at me.
He smiled.
‘Hey,’ he said.
I felt myself light up.
‘Hey,’ I said again, somewhat stupidly.
He smiled once more, and then his eyes flitted away.
I watched him while he was unaware of my gaze. The thickness of his dark hair, the slight curve in his nose, but most of all the faraway expression in his eyes, as though he was not quite with the rest of us. As though he were elsewhere. I looked at him and remembered how I had … stroked his thing, and felt that warm spatter against my hand. And in that moment it was as though he and I were the only two people in the world. So how could I feel so distant from him now? Why did it seem as if we were little more than strangers?
Gen turned to me, his gaze hesitant but focused now.
‘Hey, do you remember when we were kids? All those years ago?’
Our childhood was something we had never really talked about.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And do you remember how we used to play in that abandoned parking lot? You and I, and Jian and Wang Fan and Al Lam, and Zhen?’
‘Yes, I do!’
Gen seemed to relax.
‘When it was getting to evening, and the sun was setting, we’d all go home, in different directions. Only sometimes, after we had said goodbye, I’d wait a bit and then come back to the lot when there was no one else there. After you had all gone.’
‘Why?’
Gen frowned.
‘I don’t really know. I think I had picked up on the coldness in my own house around that time. How my parents were different from other parents. My father much older than my mother. The fact that they didn’t really talk. I’d started to dread going back to that house, always so cold. And I imagined that you all had families who were very close, who spent a lot of time together, who laughed and played and enjoyed each other’s company. Your family is like that. I noticed it when I visited.’
I didn’t know what to say. I think it was the closest thing to a compliment Gen had ever given me.
‘But my family never was. I really loved spending time with you guys. But when you had gone … sometimes I would linger, hang around, before heading back.’
He looked at me again and smiled faintly.
‘Do you remember in that same lot there was that old gnarly tree? Fan got stuck up there once. And my god, did he holler! And we all laughed as Jian tried to coax him down!’
I nodded and grinned. I hadn’t remembered that until Gen spoke of it, but now the memory came, full and vivid. I laughed.
‘Yes, yes of course!’
Gen’s expression grew more temperate.
‘Well,’ he said, his eyes shining at the absurdity of the recollection, ‘when you had all gone, I’d sometimes creep back and climb that tree!’
I looked at him and giggled. He was smiling too.
‘Well, why on earth did you do that?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. Maybe just because … just because it was beautiful. That lot was on the top of a sloping road, and when you climbed the tree, you could see across the city. And when the sun was setting, it looked amazing. All that red and orange in the sky. And in the distance, I could see the outline of the Forbidden City, I could see all the way into Tiananmen Square.’
He seemed far away again. Far away from me.
‘But what made you think about that now?’ I asked.
He turned to me again. Another smile. I would have paid the world’s weight in gold for one of those smiles.
‘When I was that age, I had never visited the Forbidden City, never walked in Tiananmen. But the fact is that I could still see it, from that old twisted tree, so far away, just before the night came. It was beautiful, yes, but it also frightened me.’
‘Frightened you?’
‘Yes. Seeing it in the distance. The outline of the imperial palace, that great square. Sitting in the tree I felt secure. And yet, beyond, in the far distance, was this whole world that I could see but didn’t really know. I knew one day I would go there. But in the meantime, looking out that way, seeing that place underneath the sunset – it felt as though I was looking into my own future. A whole world where I would one day be!’
Gen flushed, his cheeks darkened, his eyes darted and turned away. I could see he was embarrassed. I spoke quickly but with great sincerity.
‘I understand exactly what you mean. I mean, I really do. But …’
He glanced at me nervously.
‘But?’
‘But I don’t get why you are telling me this now.’
His shoulders relaxed again.
‘I didn’t make that clear, did I?’
I shook my head briefly.
He smiled, but this time the smile was thin and wan.
‘It’s just that today, when teacher … when Liu Ping was making his speech about the latest assignment, and how we need to take it seriously and all of those things, because of university. Usually that stuff never bothers me. But today, I felt that way – the way I did when I was a kid. Perched on that tree. Looking out towards Tiananmen Square. Like it’s really real. We are actually looking at the future. And from this point on, nothing will ever be the same again!’
I crept my hand into his, my fingers locking with his. He squeezed my hand in return.
‘Do you want me to come back with you? Talk some more?’
His grip on my hand relaxed.
‘I would like that. But I think I want to jot down a few thoughts on the project. And I don’t think my mother is expecting a guest tonight. I hope you understand.’
‘Of course, of course.’
I gave a silly, gormless grin. Prim and ridiculous, beaming like an idiot, while something inside me broke apart.
Gen gave one last smile. I watched him walk away.
I stood there for a few moments longer. Perhaps the project was an excuse; perhaps he simply didn’t want to talk to me any longer. Or maybe he really was going home to start work on the assignment. The essay was far from my mind, however. All I could think about was him. I took some comfort in the fact that he had gripped my hand, had opened up to me and told me about his deepest feelings. He had shared a memory from our childhood.
And yet I felt bereft. After all, I was the one watching his figure disappear in the distance. I watched it intently until I couldn’t see it any longer. It was late autumn but still warm. I was sweating, I could feel it on the inside of my clothes, not just because of the balmy weather, but because of the effort I was making with Gen. I needed him to like me so badly.
Later, I realised I hadn’t even looked at my own essay. The essay Liu Ping handed back to me. I took it out of my bag. He’d given me a B, which was good enough, I guess. I thought about what he had said – how the next one was to be based on the idea of what it is that makes us human. I didn’t have the first clue about how to approach that. But I didn’t want to go home yet either.
So I made my way to the bookstore. When I got there, I pushed open the old door, which scraped in the quiet, and I heard the gentle tingle of the bell before I was enveloped by the lazy odour of parchment. The old man looked up at me from where he was sitting at the centre of the store, his pale eyes shining in the late afternoon light, the same expression of bemused pleasure he wore whenever he saw me. It was a great relief to step into this place, a place no one else knew about but me – a place where there was someone who always seemed glad to see me.
At once he stood up and shuffled off, and then I heard the kettle boiling and saw the delicate vapour of steam snaking its way from the back of the shop. Moments later, we were sitting together at the small desk, and I was inhaling the sweetness of the green tea he had poured into our cups. I felt a sleepy calm wash over me, a sense of warmth and safety, and I had the urge to curl up and go to sleep. I blinked, and felt his gaze on me, the blue of his eyes shining faintly, and it made me think of the sea. Then I thought about the project I had been assigned. I looked at the old man.
‘Second Uncle. What does it mean to be a human being?’
I think I expected him to laugh, for even at that age I knew my question was naive. How could such a thing be summed up in a sentence or two? But the old man looked at me seriously, as though my words were important. He stood up for the second time, his movements halting and creaking, and I saw in the soft light just how hunched his back was. He walked with a stoop, his crookedness an expression of the interminable weight of time. He was even older than my grandmother, I was sure of that; I think he was the oldest person I had ever known.
He went over to one of the shelves and withdrew a thick hardback book. He was panting in the way old people sometimes do, quiet rasps under the breath. His lips were slick with saliva and I could see the papery thinness of his skin, and the shape and outline of the bone underneath. With jerky movements, he managed to open the book to a particular page; then he flattened the paper with his hand tenderly before easing himself back into his seat. He pointed at the image, still breathing hard, unable to get the words out, before finally:
‘This … this is what it means … I think.’
I leaned in, intrigued. Under the candlelight was a photo of a cave wall. On the rusty sepia of its rock, there was a profusion of handprints. They were lighter than the surrounding rock. They formed circles almost like bouquets of flowers.
I looked at the old man.
‘I don’t understand.’
He pointed again at the picture.
‘These images were made by some of the first men. They are … many thousands of years old. Our ancestors would take shelter in caves … like this, and they would make these kinds of images.’
‘They are … pretty,’ I said, a little nonplussed.
The old man flapped his hand hurriedly, still trying to recover his breath.
‘What was it like for those first men? There were dangers everywhere. The animals waiting in the darkness as they huddled around the fire. Or the illnesses, the diseases they couldn’t see and couldn’t understand. Life was … so short. It must have passed by just like that.’
The old man clicked his fingers. He was still smiling, but the smile was rueful now.
I thought about those people, all those years ago. I imagined the crackle of the fire. Eyes glowing in the darkness beyond.
He pushed the book towards me.
‘So they made these images. On the walls of caves. Something which says, I am gone now, yes, but once I lived. Just like you.’
I looked at the images again. The hands reaching out across millennia. The faint echo of a plea. ‘I am gone now, yes, but once I lived. Just like you.’ I felt as though I could hear it in the resounding silence of the great cave. The whisper of what was. All at once, those handprints, faint and fragile, seemed so delicate, so beautiful, and I felt a sadness move in me, but also a joy. I thought about Gen, how he’d described looking out at the horizon when he was a child and seeing in the distance Tiananmen Square; our childhood and adolescence began to blur against the shadow of what was to come; the past and the future seemed to roll together in a way I couldn’t quite fathom.
I looked at the old man.
‘So being human means being remembered after you are gone?’
He looked at me and shrugged.
‘Perhaps. And remembering others too.’
He gazed at me for a few moments, his eyes looking into mine. A helplessness there. And a hope.
I am gone now, yes, but once I lived. Just like you.
And I realised the plea wasn’t just in those hands that had once touched that wall.
I wanted to tell him that I would always remember him. But instead I turned away and sipped my tea. For there are times when words won’t come. Perhaps that too is part of being human.